Page 16 of Take My Breath Away
“Just for now,” he says, quoting my words back at me. “You want your independence back. I understand, I really do, but for now it’s settled?” He raises a brow and I nod. “Good.” He says the word with a hard finality, letting me know that for now the conversation’s over.
I set about making some more coffee as James fills the dishwasher.
“Your books, I put them out the way. I didn’t want them to get any more food splattered than they have already.” He nods to some shelves on the other side of the kitchen. My sugarcraft books, the ones I rescued from Grant’s. “They look very complicated. I had a look through them. I hope you don’t mind?”
“Yes, they are and, erm, no I don’t.”
I can feel the heat burning up my face. They’re a clue to that secret ambition of mine, but for now I don’t want to say anything. It feels too fragile and ill-formed and if I expose it to the light of day, and James’ assessing gaze, it might just dissolve to nothing.
James smiles, small and almost secretive, which makes me feel like he’s reading my mind. And perhaps he is, because he doesn’t ask why I have two very big, and very well used, books on advanced sugarcrafting.
Chapter Nine
JAMES
Perry’s a determined little bugger, I’ll give him that.
He’s been staying with me for exactly one week, and he’s already got places lined up to look at. He feels he has to assert his independence, and be proactive. I understand that, and admire him for it. But I wish he wouldn’t, at least not yet. What heneedsis to take time and not make any rash decisions, but it seems he’s going to have to discover that for himself.
When I insisted I’d come with him, telling him an impartial opinion could only help, he at least didn’t give me any pushback. I’ve got opinions, all right. On a late Friday afternoon, I can think of better things to do than traipse around grim ramshackle shared houses that smell of damp and mould.
We’re on the third viewing. The place is disgusting, yet it’s the best of a desperate bunch.
“… and this would be your room. It’s nice and cosy,” the would-be landlord says.
I peer into the bedroom and wrinkle my nose.
“Room? Don’t you think that’s something of an overstatement? It’s little more than a cupboard.” I cast a glance at Perry, but he’s a polite boy and keeps his neutral smile in place.
“It’s cosy, like I say. The former tenant had no complaints.”
The middle-aged guy giving us the tour of the tatty pair of semi-detached houses which have been knocked into one scowls at me, at the same time he scratches at an impressive patch of acne on his sparsely stubbled chin. A flake of dry skin floats down and lands on his T-shirt, stained with what looks like the ghosts of many a meal. Or at least that’s what I hope it’s stained with.
“It’s a little smaller than I was lead to believe from the details.” Perry steps into the room, and I follow. “And, erm, very — red.”
I snort, and Perry throws me a pained glance. Oh, yes, it’s very red all right. Red walls, red ceiling, red curtains, red threadbare carpet. It looks like there’s been a massacre. A very bloody massacre.
“Animal pens have more room in them. I’m sure this must be illegal.”
There’s barely room to move. The bed, which sinks in the middle, is wedged up against the wall, with about a foot of space at the bottom. The open shelving is just a small built-in cupboard that’s had the door wrenched off.
“Where’s the wardrobe?” I swing around and almost knock Perry off his feet.
Acne Man, who hasn’t come in because if he did we’d have to be shoehorned out, jerks his head to a battered cupboard on the other side of the hallway.
“Perry, this is ridiculous. You can’t be considering living in this dump?”
“I don’t need much space because I won’t be bringing a lot with me…” He looks around at the nasty little room, his polite smile slipping.
Irritation wells up in me. Why in God’s name are we here, looking at this bloody hell hole, when he can stay with me for as long as he wants? I know why. It’s because he’s proud, he wants to prove to himself he can ‘move on’. But tothis?
I ball my hands into fists, fighting the urge to drag him out and back home. He needs to come to his senses, and if the journey entails looking at dumps like this, then so be it.
“I can show you the kitchen.” Acne Man’s fingers are scratching again, this time terrifyingly near to his crotch. I make a note not to shake his hand on the way out. “You have your own space in the fridge, and you’ve got a locker. You supply your own padlock, and—”
The door to the next room crashes open. A huge bald man waddles out, zipping up his jeans. Perry and I gag as a noxious cloud of poisonous gas fills the air.
“Toilet’s blocked again. That’s the third time this week. It’s not going down at all.” He throws a disinterested glance our way, and thumps down the stairs.
